


You’re kissing to cut through the gloom (with a cough drop colored tongue)

by orphan_account



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Usage, Blowjobs, Cumshots, Dirty Talk, Eddie is french because fuck it, Eddie is legal but he’s still. in his late teens, Emotional Manipulation, Fighting, Fist Fights, Flirting, Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Model AU, Perfume, Richie doesn’t seem to bad right now but, Richie is a fucking Creep, Sexual Manipulation, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Relationships, age gap, buckle up folks it’s gonna be a wild ride, emetophobia (brief), good ol fashion brawls in NYC, it gets worse from here folks, oh boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23679991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You’re a minx, Eddie, and I think we should really… take advantage of that,” his teeth glinted almost sinisterly, the smile falling from Eddie’s face.“Mr. Tozier,” he whispered, his heart seizing, “I don’t know if this is…”“Drop it, sweetheart. You do this every time, I hope you don’t want people in the industry thinking you’re difficult to work with…”
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Bill Denbrough, Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak, Stan Uris/Richie Tozier (past)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 132





	1. pride’s gonna be the death of you and me

**Author's Note:**

> PHEW HI YALL! this is my first attempt at writing a darker fic so pls be nice to me about it lol. fic title is from ‘knee socks’ by arctic monkeys and chapter title is from ‘PRIDE.’ by kendrick lamar!

Eddie had always been ‘pretty’. 

Never handsome, or strong, or ‘little man’ like the other boys in his neighborhood were called— when Sonia brought him over to the other ladies’ in the neighborhood’s houses, they would titter over him as if he were a little kitten.  _ Oh, Sonia, comme c’est mignon, c’est joli.  _

He wasn’t handsome, or big and strong. He was a pretty boy, and always had been since he was little, perched on his mother’s lap as she groomed his brown locks like he was a lap dog. Nice was okay enough when it came to treating him right— sure, it wasn’t Paris, that was where they were  _ really  _ open minded ( _ Too  _ open minded, in Sonia Kaspbrak’s opinion), but the times he was called  _ poule mouillée, fagot, pédé,  _ and whatnot were few and far between, at least until he was a teenager. 

When he hit 15, people started to realize he hadn’t grown out of his femininity, and that was where the trouble began. 

He hadn’t grown out of his upturned nose with freckles splattered across the bridge, cheeks soft and never blemished with acne (unlike the other boys in his grade). His hair was permanently silky, lips full and pink like rose petals, and he spoke softly, his voice velvet and smooth unlike his male peers. 

And he hadn’t grown out of his habits either— he had no taste for football or rugby like his friends did, always picking a worn out paper back and a cup of tea over getting his knees dirty. He still had a soft spot for soft silks and linen clothing over t-shirts and jeans, and always looked as if he’d stepped off the cover of some obscure men’s fashion magazine. 

And it was then when Nice became very,  _ very  _ unlike Paris. 

Eddie suffered for almost three years, his peers growing a disdain for him. They hated basically everything about him— his voice, his looks, his reading, how he taught himself English. Even the neighborhood mothers still tittered about him, but not in the sweet way they once did,  _ Poor Sonia, I heard her boy is  _ une tafiole, une pédale,  _ poor woman…  _

It was hell on earth. Even his own mother began to become weary of him, asking him  _ why don’t you have a girlfriend, mon trésor? The rumors aren’t true, are they? I’d hate for the ladies in the neighborhood to think I’m raising une tarlouze.  _ He constantly felt trapped, the weight of Nice pressing against him as he simply tried to live his life. 

Of course, they were right. He loved men; he loved wine and books and glitter and men, the desire burning hot and deep in his body. He’d sooner throw himself off his balcony than tell anyone, but he had a deep desire for masculinity— not for himself, but within a partner. 

And eventually he couldn’t stand it anymore. Much to his mother’s protests one spring day he packed his bags and bought a train ticket to Paris, then a plane ticket to New York City. 

His English wasn’t  _ great,  _ but neither was the English of lots of New Yorkers. He didn’t feel embarrassed about his accent there; in fact, lots of people called it endearing, sweet sounding, just like he was in general. His flatmate was an immigrant like him, a lady with a pretty Argentinian accent that referred to him affectionately as  _ chabón bello,  _ pretty boy. 

That was another thing he liked about America; here, when people called him  _ pretty  _ it wasn’t out of cruelty or disdain for him. In fact, when he was given his first interview offer at Marsh Designs, he was told that was why they were interested in him—  _ you must understand, Mr. Kaspbrak, we want nothing but beauty on and off our designs. You have a symmetrical face.  _

He didn’t quite know why the symmetry of his face mattered, but he also knew better than to question it. He enjoyed his job, and he didn’t want to lose it. 

New York was big and loud and smelly and crowded and a fresh start from Nice, a safe haven for Eddie. 

And today was his first ever interview for a modeling agency, a suggestion that had been his boss’s at Marsh Designs. 

He felt as if he was going to sweat half his body weight out right there, his pressed blazer oddly suffocating. The waiting room of the agency was sleek and modern, with marble columns lining the walls and pink LED lights lighting up the space. He felt oddly out of place— his fingers itched to run through his hair or grab a cigarette, but he didn’t do either of those things. Instead he waited as patiently as he could, headshot clutched in one hand, knee bouncing frantically. 

A few others were in the waiting room as well, and they looked  _ flawless.  _ They all had professionally taken headshots, manicured fingernails and an air of confidence that made Eddie’s heart beat somewhat erratically. He was, as Americans said,  _ totally fucked.  _

“Kaspbrak?” A blonde woman poked her head out of a door, “Mr. Tozier is ready to see you.”

Eddie felt like his heart was going to slam out of his chest as he stood, smoothing out a wrinkle in his cream colored button up. He could feel one of the girls, a pretty brunette glaring daggers into his back—  _ relax,  _ meuf _. I doubt we’re going for the same gigs.  _

Somehow that thought didn’t calm him. 

The studio was big, bigger than he expected it to be. No natural light to be found, the room increased about 10 degrees just from all the bright lights and heat. A simple white screen was set up, and Eddie couldn’t help but look around in amazement. 

“We’re just going to take some body shots, then you’ll go to the interview,” the blonde woman explained, taking his headshot from his hands. 

He felt oddly comfortable in front of the camera, back straight and knees relaxed like he had practiced. At one point he heard an assistant say “gosh, isn’t he just a peach?” 

_ Peach? Isn’t that a fruit?  _

Before he could mull over the comment any longer the blonde woman was bringing him towards the large wooden door at the other end of the studio. 

“He’s a shark, that Mr. Tozier,” she grumbled to him, a hand on his forearm. “Don’t let him smell the blood in the water, got it?”

“Erm— where’s the water? Where is the blood—“

She was gone, and the door swung open. 

“Enter.”

The office looked out over the New York City skyline, and suddenly Eddie felt very very small compared to the enormous city. 

“Ah,  _ allo,”  _ Eddie greeted softly to the back of the chair, the occupier not facing him. “Are you Mons- Mr. Tozier?” 

“In the flesh. Have a seat.”

Eddie’s heart was still racing, he realized as he sat down in one of the plush chairs. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The chair turned slowly, and it reminded Eddie of one of those silly American game shows. 

Richie Tozier was broad, with strong shoulders and arms that were just the right amount of muscle. His hair was dark and thick, flecks of silver around the temple, showing his age in a way his mother would have called  _ charmante  _ along with the smile lines around his eyes and mouth. 

“Well, hello there, doll,” he greeted, a slow grin spreading across his face.  _ He reminds me of the cat in that odd movie I saw as a child,  _ Eddie thought faintly as the mogul’s teeth glinted,  _ Le chat de Cheshire.  _

Mr. Tozier was examining Eddie almost as intently as Eddie was examining him. He knew it was rude to stare at his (hopefully) future employer, but he couldn’t pry his eyes away from the older man, his crisp white suit jacket, the rings glittering on his fingers, his red turtleneck, the… 

“Well, were this a process based solely off looks, I’d say you were a big fish in too small of a pond,” Mr. Tozier chuckled, still peering at Eddie from over his glasses. 

Eddie realized with a flush of embarrassment that he had  _ no  _ idea what on earth Mr. Tozier was talking about. 

Americans had strange metaphors, and why did so many of them have to do with underwater creatures? Sharks, fish, what was next? Piranhas?

“Erm…” he started, “I’m sorry, mo- Sir, what?” 

“I mean,” he still had a grin fixed on his face, “you're probably the most attractive application I’ve had all day.”

Eddie just blushed in reply, refusing to meet his eyes. “You have such a pretty accent. Where are you from?”

“Nice, France, sir.”

“France? Country of love, no?” 

“ _ Oui,  _ sir,” Eddie giggled, figuring he’d give in just a little bit. “I only came to America three months ago.”

“Your English is great,” Mr. Tozier smiled, “Did you take classes at school?”

Eddie shook his head. “I taught myself.”

“Hmm. Smart and beautiful, just how I like em,” Mr. Tozier pondered, tapping at the 5 o’ clock shadow on his chin. 

“Oh, no no,” Eddie laughed, growing pinker by the minute. “I promise, usually I am not this pink. Compliments make me blush.”

“It’s cute,” the older man replied, patting his hand. “Now, sweetheart, I’m gonna ask you a question and I want you to think about it  _ hard.  _ Why should I pick you above everyone else for this job? There are plenty of boys out there ready to work, ones who have experience.”

Eddie was taken aback. 

_ What kind of a rude question is that?  _

“Excuse me?” he asked, knowing he looked incredulous but not being able to wipe the expression off his face. 

“Take your time,” the man simply replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. 

He knew Americans weren’t great at minding their manners, but this one… this one was  _ worse.  _

“I, um,” Eddie started, “I have always been told I have feminine features. Growing up I was called an, erm, pretty boy,  _ un joli garçon.  _ And you know, all the men I saw in the advertisements in Paris were so… what’s the word, they were  _ baiseurs…”  _

“Hunks?” Mr. Tozier asked, eyebrows raising. The cigarette smoke tickled Eddie’s nose in a way that irritated him. 

“Yes, Hunk,” Eddie tried the word out in his mouth, “and you know, I think to myself maybe they would want a… a pretty boy. Like, ah, Johnathan Brandis? Or Leonardo DiCaprio?”

“I see,” Mr. Tozier seemed to ponder this, his hands now folded under his chin. “And you have no prior modeling experience to this, doll?”

Eddie nodded, hands sitting still in his lap.

“Hmm. Well, I applaud you for having the guts to apply to an agency like this,” he conceded. 

“Ah, Miss Beverly Marsh referred me here,” Eddie explained softly, “she said you were… interested in models like me.”

Mr. Tozier seemed to light up at the mention of Bev’s name, his grin going from sly to genuinely excited. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he hooted, “That woman knows me too goddamn well.”

“I’m her personal assistant,” Eddie added, cheeks glowing with pride. Mr. Tozier threw his head back and laughed, patting Eddie’s hand affectionately. 

“Oh, sweet thing,” he grinned at him, “that woman knows my type like the back of her hand. She must have called me the second she saw you.” 

“I’m- I’m your  _ type?  _ You would want me to model?” Eddie asked before realizing he worded that  _ completely  _ wrong. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to assume-“ 

Mr. Tozier was staring at him in a way that made him feel almost nude, as if he could see right through his button up and to his soft skin. His eyes flicked down his body then back up, bottom lip snagged between his stupidly white teeth. 

“You’d look so pretty all splayed out on a billboard, baby,” he said in a low voice, “maybe we’d have you modeling lingerie— god knows you’ve got the legs for it, don’t you?”

Eddie felt his flush growing deeper, the tips of his ears burning. “I don’t know if that is appropriate,” he murmured, refusing to make eye contact with the older man. 

“This is just business,” he seemed unbothered by Eddie’s discomfort. reaching for his pack of cigarettes and grabbing yet another. 

“I don’t know if… if I could be exposed like that.”

“Sure you could, sweet boy. Maybe you should… unbutton your top for me.”

Eddie’s heart felt like it was on the verge of just stopping and dropping out of his body. 

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered, “it is… unprofessional.”

“It’s not unprofessional if I asked first,” his tone was dark, an eyebrow arched as Eddie slowly slid off his blazer. “I just want to see what I have to work with, pretty boy.”

“Only a few buttons,” he murmured, mostly to himself as his nimble fingers undid the top. Mr. Tozier’s eyes watched him like a hawk until the buttons were undone to his navel, exposing his tanned skin and lean muscles. 

“Wow,” Mr. Tozier seemed to almost  _ growl  _ like some kind of animal. Eddie felt more exposed than he had in his entire life, flushed hot from head to toe like a livewire, the A/C hitting his bare chest and pricking goosebumps all over his arms. 

Here he was, in some sleazebag model agent’s office, his chest exposed to the man who had to be at least twice his age, his whole body hot with embarrassment and arousal and humiliation and  _ desire.  _

His mother would be ashamed. 

“I ought to go, I’m sure you have other clients to attend to,” Eddie’s eyes were still averted, the tension in the room thick and pressing against his shoulders, his arms, his body. 

“Leaving so soon? This wasn’t much of an interview,” Mr. Tozier commented, eyes still tracing Eddie’s figure as if he were a work of art. 

“Is there— anything else?”

“...No. I’ll call you,” he decided, fingers twitching as Eddie slid his blazer back on. “It was a pleasure to meet you, darling.” 

“An honor, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie attempted to smile, but it was wobbly and forced. He stuck his hand out to shake the older man’s, but the gesture was not returned, so he took that as his cue to leave. 

He was halfway out the door when Mr. Tozier called to him again, his voice dripping with venomous honey. 

“Oh, and by the way, Sweets? If you want to get anywhere in this industry, the first step is to get comfortable with allowing me to see you shirtless, because if I hire you this most certainly won’t be the last time.”

___

Eddie spent his night at the library, nestled deep into the computers and searching the internet for some context. 

**_richie tozier creep_ **

**_richie tozier sleazebag_ **

**_richie tozier womanizer_ **

**_model agent perv_ **

**_nyc modeling agent creep_ **

**_“richie tozier” freak_ **

His searches had turned up with nothing. No history of Mr. Tozier being inappropriate with models or employees, no crazy sex scandals or whatnot. The only thing he could really find on him was a few pictures with ex-girlfriends, and a few of him doing various drugs. One article compared him to a “modern day Hugh Hefner” which seemed fair enough to Eddie, with his wandering eyes and big hands and all that money. 

Something seemed… off. 

But he logged out of the computer and left the library, grabbing a hot dog from a cart on his way back to the flat. 

That was another thing he liked about New York City. Food carts everywhere, no matter the weather or the time of day. Once he had an ice cream cone at 7:30 in the morning. 

The flat was quiet when he got home—  _ Bárbara must be out with her girlfriend,  _ Eddie thought to himself as he toed off his shoes, hanging his jacket neatly up on the coat hanger. 

The phone was flashing.  _ One new voicemail.  _

“Hey, Eddie, it’s Richie Tozier. Just wanted to let you know we’d like you to stop by the office tomorrow and sign your modeling contract. Congratulations, babydoll, you’ve officially made it into the Tozier Modeling Agency. Call me back to let me know what time works for you.”

_ But at what cost?  _

___

A week later, and in front of the camera Eddie felt even more exposed than he had that day in Mr. Tozier’s office. 

They told him they most likely wouldn’t even use the shots they took today— the main purpose was to let Eddie “get his sea legs”, whatever that was supposed to mean. They’d allowed him to pick between two outfits; he’d picked the soft pink tunic and white slacks, the shirt unbuttoned to show off his chest like it had been at that first interview. They’d patted blush onto his cheeks and covered his lashes in mascara, then let him loose. 

“Give me seductive, sweetheart, give me  _ sex kitten,”  _ Mr. Tozier called from his seat, in one of those chairs that movie directors sat in. 

_ Sex kitten? Americans with their odd animal metaphors.  _

Eddie slid to his knees, tilting his chin up and extending a hand like a claw, like a kitten. “Yes,  _ yes,  _ that’s the money shot!” Mr. Tozier grinned, “c’mon, kitten, show us your claws.”

_ What on earth does that even mean? I don’t have claws, silly man!  _

He leaned forwards, drawing up one corner of his lip in a snarl and pressing his hands flat against the ground. Mr. Tozier continued to watch him like a hawk, eyes trailing over the ropes of muscle on his arms and down his back. “Fuck, there’s a good boy,” he almost cooed. 

Eddie leaned further down until his chest was pressed against the floor, back curved gracefully. It was an obscene pose, and he knew it as well as everyone else did, his legs spread behind him with his ass in the air, arms braced against the floor, but he felt… he felt  _ sexy,  _ he felt fucking incredible, dirty and empowered. 

“ _ That’s _ the fucking ticket,” Richie sneered, his grin more sinister than ever— it reminded Eddie of the big bad wolf from the story his mother read him as a child,  _ Le Petit Chaperon Rouge.  _

_ Don’t think about your mother while you whore yourself out on camera.  _

He smiled sweetly at the camera, holding the pose even as his back began to ache. “Stick your tongue out, sweetheart,” Mr. Tozier called, Eddie doing as he was asked. “That’s a good boy- fuck, look at that money shot.”

He felt like one of the girls in the  _ Playboy  _ magazines he’d seen the boys at school reading when he was growing up, even as he was clothed, degraded and prettied up and ready to be consumed like  _ une pute.  _

And for some sick, twisted reason, he adored it. 

“Alright, let’s take 5. Eddie, my office,” Richie snapped his fingers, Eddie feeling the drunkenness of the attention wearing off suddenly. Just like that the attention was off of him— the camera crew beginning to chat casually, Richie waltzing off to his office. It made his head spin how fast everyone moved as he pulled himself off the ground, his confidence evaporating into thin air. 

The walk across the studio felt like a walk of shame as he re-buttoned the shirt, no bright lights or plain backgrounds to make him feel prettier than he actually was. He’d allowed himself to turn into a  _ slut  _ in front of the camera, and god knows that isn’t a good look. 

By the time he was at Richie’s door, he had worked himself up so much that tears were beginning to well in his eyes. 

“Monsieur Tozier,” he called softly, opening the door to Richie in his usual position; facing the New York City skyline, back to the door, hand steepled under his chin. 

“Kid,” Richie started, wheeling his chair around and facing Eddie. “You did  _ fantastic.” _

Eddie felt a swell of pride in his stomach, cheeks going rosy. “I mean it! You’re a damn natural,” That same wolflike grin was back, his eyes glittering behind the frames of his glasses. “You’re real pretty, you know that? Pretty sells. How about you come sit on my lap, kitten?”

It seemed like an odd request, but Eddie was pretty sure it was a common thing among people with wide age differences in America. He had seen  _ Lolita  _ when he was 16, and they did that then, right?

He settled himself in Richie’s lap; he smelled of cigarettes and expensive cologne, with a faint whiff of alcohol in there as well. His turtleneck and blazer from their last meeting had been swapped out for a cream button down, gold chains hanging against his exposed chest. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” he started, “I think you’re a real gem, Eddie.”

“Ah,  _ mercí,  _ Mr. Tozier,” he giggled, cheeks still flushed proudly. 

“You know what I told you, pretty sells?” the older man continued, one hand on Eddie’s bicep, “ _ sexy  _ sells too. And I think you’ve got both.”

_ Oh.  _

_ Oh, no. Is he…?  _

“You’re a minx, Eddie, and I think we should really… take advantage of that,” his teeth glinted almost sinisterly, the smile falling from Eddie’s face. 

“Mr. Tozier,” he whispered, his heart seizing, “I don’t know if this is…”

“Drop it, sweetheart. You do this every time, I hope you don’t want people in the industry thinking you’re difficult to work with…” 

Eddie’s heart raced in his chest, but… he didn’t  _ want  _ Richie to stop. He almost liked the way he looked at him, as if he was his property—

_ Stop it. You are being a freak.  _

He could at least  _ pretend  _ like Richie’s gaze scared him. Richie was a wolf, and he was supposed to be the innocent little lamb. 

“Monsieur,” he breathed, unbuttoning just one of the buttons on his shirt. “Aren't I too young for you?”

“Age is just a number,” Richie replied nonchalantly, dragging a hand delicately down Eddie’s exposed chest. “What, you think when I called you a little minx I just thought you’d be good for selling cologne? Don’t be naïve, sweet boy.”

Eddie was sure he could feel his heart pounding under his fingertips, his lips involuntarily parted. 

“A week,” he finally managed, pulling away. 

“A week?” Richie questioned, raising an eyebrow. 

“I- I have not even known you for a week. You are my boss. Let us at least… get to know each other for a week before we do anything we regret,” Eddie knew his words were shaky, as if he didn’t even believe what he was saying. “I like you, Mr. Tozier, but…” 

“Fucking cocktease,” Richie rolled his eyes, gently pushing Eddie off his lap. “You want a week? You got a week, sugar. But don’t expect me to be nice during it,” he sneered, opening the door to his office. “Come. We’ve still got shots to do.”

_ What a creep,  _ Eddie thought to himself as he followed him out, re-buttoning his shirt. 

_ Why am I so drawn to him?  _


	2. open up your eyes, shut your mouth and see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi y’all! Sorry this took so long to get out to you guys, I didn’t like how it was going so I had to totally scrap my first draft. It’s here now though!

Eddie’s day felt like it was ticking by second by slow second, his feet propped up against the desk he’d taken over in Bev’s part of the building. 

He doesn’t want to think about Mr. Tozier. He’s spent all day trying not to. 

_ Whip It  _ blasts through his walkman as he turns the pages of his book absentmindedly, eyes flicking over the French text. 

Bárbara always tells him he should read English books to improve his second language, that’s how she did it— but Eddie’s always loved reading, he loves how simple it is. When he was younger he’d spend his days swept up into the worlds of Lewis Caroll and A. A. Milne under the shady orange fruit tree in his backyard while the other boys played rugby, his skin baking golden in 

the sunlight of Nice. He fondly remembers spending hours under that tree, orange rinds by his side and juice around his mouth, lost in wonderland and the wardrobe and the hundred acre wood as the world passed him by. 

He didn’t want to have to translate in his head as he read, adding an extra step to a task he enjoyed. 

He stares out at the street now, eyeing a specific yellow taxi as it speeds across the road below him. He almost,  _ almost  _ misses Nice as the rain patters down on the large windowpane— he loved New York, he really did, but it was large and rainy and loud, a startling and harsh contrast to his little french hometown. 

And Mr. Tozier was there. Tozier had his barely alive career on a leash. Eddie feels as if there’s a giant timer hanging above his head, counting down the days of the week until Richie… 

He doesn’t know what Mr. Tozier will do. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

_ New York isn’t much different from Nice. It just has different bullies,  _ he thinks to himself, swinging his booted feet off the desk.  _ Nice had mean schoolboys, New York has model moguls who want to eat you alive.  _

A shiver shoots down his spine at that last thought. Mr. Tozier’s predatory grin makes its way into his brain again, except Eddie’s imagination replaces his shiny teeth with glinting, white fangs like the wolf in  _ Le Petit Chaperon Rouge,  _ ready to feast on him. 

_ Ugh.  _

He examines the book in his hand;  _ The Portrait of Dorian Gray  _ by Oscar Wilde. It’s one of the paperbacks he brought with him from home, the cover and pages inside well loved. He’d read it countless times, yet he always found himself returning to it— it was one of the only books he’d taken with him, though he’d wanted to take more. 

The other two paperbacks sit on his desk.  _ Lolita  _ and  _ Romeo and Juliet.  _

He moves to turn his walkman back up before hearing voices down the corridor; one is Bev’s, he knows right away, but the other is a man’s, deep and masculine. 

His headphones are off in an instant, gathering his binder into his arms and setting off to meet his boss— but Bev and the stranger have already made their way into his office. 

_ Oh. Oh, fuck no.  _

“We meet again,” Mr. Tozier smirks, intentionally looking him up and down. 

“Hello, sir,” Eddie offers as politely as he can, his stomach churning unhappily as he offers his hand to the older man. 

As usual, he ignores it and gives him another once-over before he opts to walk around the perimeter of the room, looking out the large windows overlooking the skyline. “It’s not technically an office, but I have him use it as one so he can have his own space,” Bev explains, seemingly oblivious to Tozier’s stares. “If he ends up working for me full time, I’ll fully transition it into a full office.”

The older man just smiles, one hand resting on the windowpane. “Well, you’ll have to snatch him up before I have him working for me full time,” he replies, a large finger trailing over Eddie’s shoulder blade as he circles back. 

Another fit of butterflies erupts in Eddie’s stomach, his skin burning where Mr. Tozier brushed against it. 

“You wish. I’m keeping him,” Bev smiles good-naturedly, patting him on the back. “Eddie, darling, could you order a pizza to the building?”

“Of course, ma’am. Olives, onions and peppers, no?” 

“Half meat,” Tozier grunts, earning a sock on the shoulder from Bev. 

“I will do that,” Eddie offers another smile to the two, picking up the phone and dialing the number of the pizza place Bev loved. 

“ _ Lolita _ , hm?” Mr. Tozier’s fingers skim over the worn out book on his desk, fingertips catching on the rips. 

“Hello, I would like to order a medium pizza,” Eddie ignores the comment, cursing himself for leaving that stupid book out. “One half with olive, onions and peppers, the other half meat. Meat lovers? Yes, half meat lovers.”

“Oh, and  _ Romeo and Juliet _ ? A romantic, I see,” Tozier continues, picking up the book and turning it in his hands. “Well loved, isn’t it?”

“No drinks, thank you. The address is 2000 Bleecker Street, I will meet you in the lobby,” goosebumps shoot up Eddie’s spine as Mr. Tozier’s hand ghosts over his shoulder blades and  _ fuck why won’t Bev say something— _

Eddie gives the debit card details as he faintly registers Bev’s heels clicking out of his office, leaving him alone with Tozier. “Yes, thank you. That is all,” he finishes the call shakily, pushing down a groan at the tremor in his voice. “Of course. Goodbye, sir.”

“So polite,” Mr. Tozier’s voice dripped with venomous honey, “even with ugly people. You’re so pretty, bambi, you don’t have to be nice to them.”

“I want to be,” Eddie shivers as Mr. Tozier’s wrist rests on his shoulder, draping down to rub over his pec. “Monsieur…”

“Shh,” Mr. Tozier hushes low and deep against his ear, his breath hot on Eddie’s face. “If you know what’s good for you-“

He’s cut off by Bev’s heels clicking back in, large hand sliding off Eddie’s shoulder. “Richie, c’mon,” she motions for him to follow her, “you’re a doll, Eddie, thank you for ordering that.”

“You are welcome,” Eddie smiles his best ‘customer service’ smile, his stomach still sunk as the two walk away. 

_ Fuck.  _

_ ___ _

“He sounds like a creep,” Bárbara says, her girlfriend Annalise’s feet in her lap. She’s painting her toes bubblegum pink with a concentration only she could have for such a small task, and Eddie thinks it’s cute. 

“He is,” Eddie replies, reaching back into the bowl of popcorn. “I think he is old enough to be my father.”

Annalise wrinkles her nose at that, turning down the episode of  _ Friends  _ on the TV. “He wants to use you, hon,” she sighs, “no offense, but men are trash. Especially men like that.”

Bárbara nods, blowing on the drying nail polish. “Americans have such an odd obsession with us foreigners.”

Bárbara had been the first friend Eddie had made in America. She was an immigrant like him, from a rich neighborhood in Buenos Aires. She’d moved because her parents had disowned her for being bisexual, and she’d fled to New York with her savings to become an actress on the Broadway stage. She and Eddie had instantly clicked when they had met; moving in together had been easy, and they’d stuck together ever since. Of course her southern belle girlfriend Annalise was a package deal— but Eddie didn’t mind. They were both sweet and good friends to him, and it was better than living alone. 

“I mean, he  _ is  _ kind of handsome,” Eddie sighs, folding his arms and snuggling into his sweatshirt, a blue oversized one a former boyfriend had left in his possession. “He’s got such nice hands…”

“Oh,  _ cariño, _ ” Bárbara shakes her head disapprovingly at him, “don’t let his looks fool you.”

“You have never met him,” Eddie replies indignantly, “What if he is actually very nice, just… awkward?”

“He doesn’t sound awkward, he sounds like he’s trying to take advantage of you,” Annalise interjects, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and examining her fingernails. 

Eddie feels embarrassed— he finds no solace in this conversation, and though he knows they’re well intentioned he feels as if the pair is judging him. 

“I am going to bed,” he decides, “goodnight,  _ meufs.” _

“We’re getting pancakes at the diner across the street tomorrow morning if you want to come,” Annalise tells him as he stands, brushing a popcorn kernel off his sweatshirt with her elegant pink fingernails. 

“No, thank you. I have work in the morning,” he offers her a small smile, waving to them one last time before padding across the apartment into his bedroom. 

He loves looking out at the skyline at night. The cars bustle along underneath the apartment as he looks down, the tops of people’s heads moving left and right as they bumble off to clubs and bars. New York City’s lights were beautiful when admired from afar, twinkling and bright behind Eddie’s window. 

The chunky flip phone on his vanity rings, effectively scaring him out of his trance by the windowsill. 

“Allo?” he answers as he cradles the phone between his neck and cheek, opening his pot of moisturizer and sitting down at his vanity. 

“Eddie,” the voice is low and smooth. 

_ Oh no. No, no no no.  _

“Good evening, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie’s cheeks burn as he rubs moisturizer onto them, “how can I help you?”

“Kid, you better be sitting down. I got great news for ya,” Mr. Tozier sounds genuinely excited, Eddie can almost hear his trademark grin through the receiver. “You’ve got your first official modeling gig tomorrow.”

And Eddie can’t help but smile widely at himself in the mirror, pride coloring his cheeks a rosy pink. His heart is doing flips in his stomach because oh my god he  _ did  _ it, he’s going to—

“I expect you at my office at 8:30 am sharp. Don’t eat breakfast, we can’t have you bloated. It’s a shoot for a well known company, you wouldn’t happen to know… Calvin Klein?” 

Eddie’s eyes widen at himself in the mirror. “ _ What?”  _ He sounds like a fool and he knows it, but doing a shoot for Calvin Klein on his first day seems downright  _ insane.  _ It feels like a dream. 

“Don’t fuck it up,” Richie advises before hanging up abruptly, the flat beep of the phone buzzing in Eddie’s ears. 

_ Shit.  _

Eddie has no idea how he’s supposed to sleep after that bomb got dropped on him. 

___

It’s 8:30 am sharp, and Eddie is already being pushed into the makeup chair. 

The head makeup artist is fussing over him, patting blush onto his cheeks while other men and women in black flutter around him, spraying various makeup sprays and smells at him. He feels like a diva in a 1940s movie, his legs elegantly crossed as he lets the team fuss over him. 

He knows Richie is on the other side of the studio, probably snapping at someone on his phone or looking at Eddie’s legs from where he’s sitting. 

Eddie doesn’t really want to know. 

His shirt is unbuttoned and a glittery spray is spritzed across his chest and collarbones, glinting under the harsh lights of the studio. He feels pretty, almost— he’s faintly reminded of when he was young, when the mothers of Nice would dawn over him as if he were a little prince, tousling his curls and smoothing his clothes. 

This feels much better though. The hands are not invasive, and he knows when one of the assistants coos at how pretty he is, there is no negativity behind it. 

“Are you ready for your first big shoot?” one of the assistants asks, spraying something salty smelling into his hair and tousling his curls with her fingers. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie offers her a polite smile, watching one of his curls fall gently onto his forehead. 

“You’re a lucky boy,” she taps his shoulder, “most models don’t get to model for brands like Klein until their second or third year. Some don’t even get to do it at all.”

“Who’s cock did you have to suck in your former life?” the head makeup artist chuckles, Eddie blushing at the comment. 

“More like who’s cock is he sucking right now to get this gig,” one of the quieter assistants adds in, “we know how  _ he  _ looks at you.”

“I am not sleeping with him,” Eddie replies indignantly, his cheeks burning. “I…”

“You don’t have to be. He always does this, you know,” she leans in to apply mascara to his lashes, “he picks a pretty, young model, and latches onto him for a few months before throwing him out with the garbage. It’s a vicious cycle, and it looks like you’re gearing up to be his next victim.”

“I will not let him do that. I am not interested in him,” Eddie struggles to hold his eye open as the mascara wand pokes at his eyelashes. 

“That’s what Stan said. Then Richie made him change his last name because it wasn’t ‘model-like’, then started controlling how he dressed, and eventually Stan was just about ready for him to propose until Richie fired him. He always does this.”

“Who is Stan?”

“You probably know him as Sam Moonlight. That was his professional name. His real name’s Stanley Uris,” she tells him, moving onto his other eye. 

The name rang a bell. Eddie could faintly recall seeing Stan’s face in the Métro in Paris many times when he visited the big city, all curly hair and pale skin splashed across ads for Dior and Gucci. He  _ was  _ pretty, if they were remembering the same person. 

“Well, that- that won’t happen to me. I am not naive.”

He had already fallen for Richie’s wolf like antics once, at that first shoot, so that was technically a lie. 

But they didn’t need to know that. 

“Alright, let’s go!” Mr. Tozier’s voice booms across the studio, one hand in his pocket, the other holding an enormous cup of coffee. The cream suit from a few days ago had been switched out for a navy one, turtleneck replaced with a crisp collared shirt. His rings still glitter proudly on his fingers, catching Eddie’s eye like a raven to gold. 

_ Stop it. Don’t be a fool.  _

Eddie makes his way to the center of the studio, a fancy blue bottle of clear liquid pushed into his hands. 

He sprays it once, immediately scrunching his at the strong scent of the cologne— why anyone would buy this, he wasn’t sure. He’d take his peach and strawberry cologne over the sharp, department-store smell of Calvin Klein any day. 

“That’s no face to sell cologne with,” Mr. Tozier comments from his chair, chin propped up on his hand. 

“Sorry, monsieur,” Eddie doesn’t meet his eyes, shame filling the pit of his stomach. Tozier simply smirks at him, raking his eyes up and down his body as if he’s a steak in the window at the marketplace. 

Eddie feels hot, and he knows it’s not from the studio lights. 

“Alright, we’re going for sexy here. We want seductive, pretty boy,” that wolf-like smile is back, his teeth glinting. “spray some around, show us your best angles.”

Eddie does as he’s told, angling his face until his jaw looks sharp against the pale skin of his neck, the glitter on his chest shimmering as he sprays the harsh cologne. He feels pretty, almost— like a glamor girl in a magazine, the flash of the cameras going off in his face. 

“It’s a breeze. Act like it’s the best thing you’ve ever smelled in your life,” Mr. Tozier continues, examining Eddie as if he were already plastered on a NYC subway wall, and he was an average commuter. 

Eddie inhales deeply, resisting the urge to gag at the smell and instead letting a coy smile spread across his lips, his eyelids fluttering shut. “There’s the ticket,” Tozier coos, and Eddie can hear the ferocious grin in his voice. “Look at the camera, darling. Give me sexy, look at the camera like you want it to take you home.”

Eddie flushes under the powder on his face, but does as he’s asked, raising his chin and lowering his eyelids at the camera. His tongue peeks out and licks against his top lip, and he swears he hears Tozier exhale softly. “Fuck yes,” his voice sounds strained, “unbutton your top some more. Frank, zoom out, get a shot from the waist up.”

Eddie exposes his toned chest to the camera, keeping his eyes lidded and looking up through his eyelashes. And Mr. Tozier looks about ready to eat him up, his bottom lip between his pearly white teeth, hands placed conveniently over his crotch. 

Eddie feels himself growing hard in his slacks, much to his chagrin. 

_ Fuck.  _

“God, yes,” he breathes, squirming in his seat—  _ I’m turning him on.  _ The realization hits Eddie like a punch in the gut.  _ He wants to… he is turned on by me.  _

Eddie snags his bottom lip between his teeth, flattening his palms against the floor and arching his back. 

_ Let him be. He has a week before he’s allowed to touch me again.  _

“Yes, show us sex kitten, like in that last shoot you did. Pick up the bottle, sweetheart,” Eddie’s fingers wrap around the glass bottle, “now… lick it.”

Eddie’s face burns at the command, but he knows better than to protest. 

He runs the flat of his tongue along the side of the glass, keeping his eyes locked on the lens of the camera as spit runs down the sides. And Mr. Tozier isn’t even trying to hide that he’s aroused anymore— he has a hand on his crotch, rubbing small circles over his dick, eyes glued onto Eddie as if he’s a nude model in a playboy magazine. 

“Christ, Richie,” the cameraman mutters, “don’t be a perv.”

“How about you shut the fuck up and let me do my job?” Mr. Tozier snaps, still eyeing Eddie’s body. Eddie feels as if he’s completely nude, every pair of eyes in the studio on him, his dick hard in his slacks, his shirt unbuttoned. 

And he loves it. 

He sprays the cologne again, parting his lips and letting his tongue fall out. He looks like a prostitute, and feels like one too— but he feels drunk on the attention, relishing in the stares, in  _ Richie’s  _ stare, in the way he can hear Mr. Tozier’s hand rustling over his dress pants. 

He thinks he blacks out. 

Two hours later, they’re finished. 

He watches Mr. Tozier make a beeline to the bathroom, his brain foggy as someone wipes the makeup off his face with a strong smelling wipe. 

“I’m sorry he treats you like that,” the makeup artist says, rubbing his cheek with the wipe. “It’s so creepy. He doesn’t do that with models often, but…”

“It is fine. Business, eh?” Eddie still feels floaty, not completely back to earth. 

“It shouldn’t be,” she looks sympathetic, moving the makeup wipe down to rub at his chest to get the glitter off. “He’s not the only modeling mogul like that.”

Eddie can only sigh, running his hands through his hair. 

Mr. Tozier walks out of the bathroom, looking slightly

more disheveled than normal. His erection is gone. 

Eddie’s cheeks flame. 

___

The shower drowns out the movie Bárbara and Annalise are watching in the other movie, but it doesn’t drown out Eddie’s thoughts, as much as he wishes it did. 

He can’t stop thinking about Mr. Tozier. Only five days, now; five days before Richie will pounce again, press him against his desk and grope him like he’s some sort of—

_ Stop it.  _

His cock is hardening under the hot water, nipples pebbled despite the steam. 

He shouldn’t want Richie. Not only is he his  _ boss,  _ for Christ’s sake, but he’s a pervert; God knows what he wants Eddie to do when he gets his hands on him, something depraved that would probably make a hooker blush. 

Eddie’s hand is wrapped around his cock before he can stop himself. 

He wants it to happen sooner, he realizes as the hot water hits his chest. He wants Richie to call him into the office early one morning and slam him against the wall or on top of his desk and kiss him until he’s senseless…

His hand begins to pump slowly, earning a soft grunt from his throat. It’s filthy and he knows it, his roommates are next door and this man is probably some sort of sexual predator—

He thinks of Tozier’s rings pressing into his skin as he grips his thighs, fucking into him at a brutal pace. How pretty they would glitter in Eddie’s curls, holding him in place as the younger of them two gagged on his cock. 

_ Fuck.  _

His head hits the shower wall, his fist speeding up at the filthy thoughts of what Richie could do with his hands  _ alone.  _

He was bold enough to feel himself up at the shoot that morning, what if he… what if he had his way with Eddie right then and there? In front of the cameras, in front of the makeup artists and cameramen and assistants—

Eddie moans louder than he means to at the idea. The thought of being humiliated like that,  _ on camera,  _ makes a feral kind of heat pool in his stomach. 

His hips are bucking frantically into his hand now, whole body slick with sweat and water from the shower head. He knows he looks like a mess, hair dripping into his face and cheeks flushed red but  _ fuck  _ he can’t being himself to care right now because what if Richie pushed him under his desk and made him suck him off? What if he fucked his face until he was a red faced, crying mess, then made him go to a shoot?

Everyone would know how much of a slut he was. His post cumshot face plastered all over NYC, LA, Paris. His mother would see it when she went into the city, Bárbara and Annalise would see it, they’d all know he’s a little cumslut—

Eddie lets out one last long, low groan as he cums hard, that final thought pushing him over the edge. He’s being too loud and he knows it, but it feels too good and  _ god  _ he wants Richie so badly, soft moans spilling from his lips until his hand slows down. 

He spends the rest of the shower in silence, rinsing the shame off his body. 

He still feels dirty as he changes into his silk pajamas, as if he’s rubbing off grime that won’t go away while he puts on his moisturizer. 

Even as he lies in bed under his many blankets he can’t sleep, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the city bustle beneath him, Mr. Tozier’s hands and hair and smile and body running through his mind. 

He’ll be the death of him, Eddie swears as he finally drifts off, just missing the sunrise over the New York City skyline. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang with me on tumblr: @darlingdenbrough ! :)


	3. i hear you in the morning, and i hear you at nightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s been a week. I’d say we know each other pretty well by now, don’t we?” Mr. Tozier smirks, “especially after the fun little moment we had on Friday.”  
> “Mr. Tozier,” Eddie breathes, his heart hammering in his chest. “I know… I know about Stan. What you did to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y’all! i’m so sorry this took ages to get out. tbh this is probably my least favorite fic of mine but y’all seem to enjoy it so i keep updating it. this chapter is a bit longer. also, i have a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/494uQHy1ArKgyzgLnl3s0k?si=J_XgG8WlSq2BQyX-kj4alw) for this fic!

Going to a party had seemed like a fun idea at first— it was a Friday, and Bev had never invited him to something like that before. She had told him there would be other models for him to meet there, and drinks on the house (even though they both knew Eddie wasn’t  _ technically _ the legal age to drink, but the law works a little differently in the modeling world). 

He loves Bárbara and Annalise, but truly he wasn’t too interested in spending another night watching  _ Friends  _ and listening to them gossip. Besides, free drinks and hanging out with his chill boss sounded pretty good. 

It hadn’t even occurred to him that Mr. Tozier might be there. 

Bev had pulled him into the sample closet and dressed him to the nines, cooing over him as he tried on silky blouses and tailored slacks. She seemed to genuinely enjoy his presence, even more so than she had before, and he liked that feeling of being wanted, being enjoyed. So he let her drag him to the nightclub in a taxi, teetering in her enormous heels to the door. 

“And like, obviously Donatella was completely wasted at this point,” Bev giggles, heels clicking against the pavement as she hangs off Eddie’s arm. “And I’m like, um, hello, you have a whole brand to represent? Fucking  _ Versace?”  _

Eddie laughs, parting her forearm. “C’mon. Let’s get drinks,” she tugs him towards the bar, “oh my god, there are so many people here for you to meet. You’re single, right?”

“Yes,” Eddie smiles at her, hoisting himself up onto one of the vinyl barstools. She grins mischievously, wiggling her eyebrows at him before grabbing the bartender’s attention with a snap of her fingers. 

“Manhattan on the rocks, please,” she orders, “what do you want?”

“Rum and coke,  _ s’il vous plait _ ,” Eddie offers the bartender a polite smile. Truthfully, he’s never had the drink before, but he’s seen Annalise make it in the kitchen late at night. And it has coke in it, so how bad can it be? 

“So,” she leans forward, looking around the bar sneakily. Eddie can’t help but laugh at her antics, crossing his legs as she gives him a devious look. “I know  _ so  _ many hunks here tonight that I can get you hooked up with. See him, over there?”

She nods over at a blonde, sharply dressed man, holding a drink and chatting with someone Eddie faintly recognized as a C list actress. “That’s Bill Denbrough. He’s single right now, and I’ve heard he’s great in bed,” she says, earning an embarrassed laugh from Eddie. 

_ Americans are so frank. It’s quite odd.  _

“Well,” he shrugs, “that’s interesting.”

Bill seems terribly average to him, and too… too  _ young.  _ Granted, he’s probably about Eddie’s age, but that had never been Eddie’s cup of tea. 

_ Is that what I like? Older men? _

“How about someone a little more… mature?” Eddie asks, eyes scanning the room as the bartender sets a rum and coke down in front of him. 

“Oh, you’re going cougar hunting, hm?” Bev smirks.

Eddie just gives her a perplexed stare. 

_ Americans and their silly animal metaphors! _

“Cougars are like… older romantic partners,” she explains, “Like, old and sexy.”

Eddie snorts into his drink, taking a big sip of it. It’s bitter yet sweet, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. 

“Do you know any… cougars?” Eddie tries the word out in his mouth, resisting the urge to giggle at it. 

“None that you’d be interested in, I don’t think,” she replies, “I know some sexy ass women though. Are you like, bi or…”

“No. Very gay,” Eddie takes another swig, the alcohol burning as it slides down his throat. 

“Aw, shame,” she says, giving him a wink. 

_ Hmm. God, isn’t Mr. Tozier old enough to be my father?  _

“This is an odd question,” he breaks the settled silence between them, “um, how old is monsieur Tozier?” 

Bev raises an eyebrow at him, smirking from over her drink. “He’s 42. Why? You thinking about trying to take  _ him  _ out?”

Eddie goes red, his cheeks burning fiercely. “No!” he squeaks out, “No, I am just… just curious.”

“Mhm,” she hums, “I suppose you’ve been told the story of Sam Moonlight by now.”

_ Right. Stan.  _

“Yes,” he affirms, “I have.”

“So, you know what happens when pretty boys give in to Richie’s antics.”

“Mhm,” he swallows down the last of his drink, “but that is not going to happen to me. Because, like I told the makeup team, I am  _ not  _ interested in him.”

“He’s most certainly interested in you, though. Word travels fast around here,” she flags the bartender over, signaling for another drink for both of them. “I’ve heard all about the Klein shoot, how he was acting like a bitch in heat.”

_ What does that even mean?  _

“Yes,” Eddie decides to leave it at that, “sure.”

“I hope you realize just how lucky you are right now,” she takes another swig of her drink, her eyelids drooping slightly to show off her shimmering eyeshadow. “When Richie likes you, he  _ likes  _ you. If he doesn’t get bored with you, you’ll go far.” 

“I do not want him to like me,” Eddie sighs, “I do not want to sleep with people to help my career.”

“You have integrity, I must admit,” she raises her glass slightly, “but you’ll find you won’t have a choice soon enough. It’s a dog eat dog world, this industry.”

“Bev!” Bill, the blonde man Bev had pointed out is heading towards them with a million dollar smile on his face. He holds his arms out for a hug and Bev leaps into them, holding him fiercely. 

“Oh my god, it’s been forever!” she gushes, sliding back into her seat. “Bill, this is my friend and assistant Eddie.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” he sticks his hand out to Eddie, Eddie only noticing his perfectly manicured fingers. 

“Hello,” he smiles, shaking his hand cautiously. 

“Eddie here is from  _ Paris,”  _ Bev grins, patting Eddie’s hand.

“Nice, actually,” Eddie corrects her gently, “It is very far away from Paris.”

“Oh, you’re French?” Bill asks, “speak some French for us.”

Bev claps her hands excitedly at that.  _ What am I, some sort of seal performing at a zoo?  _

“Erm,  _ j'ai baisé ta mère,”  _ he decides. Bev and Bill coo simultaneously, and Eddie thanks the heavens that he’s already started drinking. 

“I just love European guys,” Bill drawls, the alcohol clear in his voice. “You know, I think…”

“Sir?” The bartender taps Eddie’s shoulder, sliding a frosty glass in front of him. “The gentleman at the end of the bar bought this for you.”

Eddie stares at the glass suspiciously.  _ What if it is drugged? What if it is gross?  _

“Who?” he asks simply, cocking his head. The bartender simply nods to his left, walking off to take other orders. Eddie looks over his shoulder, only to see- 

“Oh,” he whips back around to Bev, his whole face going pale. 

Sure enough, glittering rings and suit jacket and all, there sits Richie Tozier with a smug grin on his face. 

“Bev,” he whispers, “he is here.”

“He is?” she replies very loudly, “oh, shit!”

He buries his face in his hands, slumping against the bar. “Stop it!” she scolds, lifting his chin up. “Tell him you don’t drink.”

“I think he has seen me drinking my rum and coke,” Eddie replies, taking the martini and sipping it. “And that is good, afterall.”

“This is how he always does it,” she replies, “Bill, could you leave us alone for a minute?” 

He gives them a two finger salute, walking away. 

“He just buys me a drink. It is no big deal,” Eddie huffs indignantly, taking another dainty sip. 

“He’s trying to get you drunk so you do something you regret,” she retorts, “I’ve been friends with him since the 70s. I know my shit. God, were you even  _ born?” _

“I was born in 1975. So, yes,” Eddie replies, starting to regret his decision to come. He finishes his martini in one swift gulp, his whole body starting to feel warm. He can’t help but unbutton his shirt a bit, sweat starting to bead on his hairline. 

“Whatever. I’m gonna go dance, okay? Don’t do anything dumb,” she kisses his cheek, heading off into the crowd of models and actors. 

“He’s bought you another one,” the bartender sighs, sliding another martini in front of Eddie. 

“Tell him  _ merci,”  _ Eddie replies, taking another swig. It’s his fourth drink, and he’s feeling it now, the lights of the dance floor swirling over his eyes like a kaleidoscope. 

“You can tell me yourself,” Mr. Tozier’s voice appears by his ear, sending shivers down Eddie’s spine. “Bonjour, bambi.” 

“Mr. Tozier,” some of the fear he felt before feels dissolved under the alcohol, “Merci.”

“It’s no problem. Aren’t you too young to be drinking?”

Eddie nods, taking another sip of the martini. 

“Good. I like ‘em barely legal.”

Eddie giggles, much to his own horror. “This is horribly unprofessional,” he points out, “we…”

“Shh,” Eddie finds his boss’s finger pressed against his lips, “the rules don’t apply on the weekends.”

That stupid airheaded giggle comes out of Eddie’s mouth again. “Finish your drink, sweetheart,” Richie coos, eyeing Eddie’s Adam's apple as the younger finishes the martini in one fell swoop. “Bartender? Another one for the fella.”

“I do not get drunk often,” Eddie confesses, his stomach warm and his brain a bit fuzzy. 

“Fun, isn’t it?” Richie asks, the light reflecting off his glasses in a way that masked his eyes. Eddie nods, swaying gently to the music. He’s forgotten that he’s a lightweight, but it’s Friday, and the drinks are free. What’s the harm in getting a little drunk? “Don’t hurt yourself, honey.”

“Honey…” Eddie echoes, finishing his drink. Richie looks at him almost affectionately, and Eddie knows he’s been drinking too but it makes his stomach flutter, like butterflies are bonking their little heads against his skin. 

“Dance with me,” Richie extends his hand to him, and he knows he should say no, he should be afraid of him, but he looks so kind under the lights of the dance floor and he’s bought him so many drinks already so how could he say no? 

Eddie doesn’t recognize the song playing over the speakers— something fast paced and rock,  _ Blondie?  _

“One way or another,” Richie croons as he rocks his hips, “I’m gonna get ya, I’m gonna get ya get ya get ya get ya…” 

_ Like the big bad wolf got Le Petit Chaperon Rouge,  _ Eddie thinks hazily to himself, feeling his body melt against Richie’s. The older man smells like expensive, sharp cologne, and his chest is broad and strong under Eddie’s palms. 

His shoulders shimmy as Eddie leans back, the two of them dancing together under the flashing lights of the club. Richie is handsome up close, Eddie notices; his jawline is sharp and his eyes are shining, his forehead damp with dark curls sticking to it. 

“Monsieur,” he says, his arms looping around Richie’s neck, “this is… this is so wrong.”

“Nothing wrong with two friends dancing, hm?” he replies, unhooking Eddie’s hands and spinning him around. “And if the lights are all out, I’ll follow your bus downtown…” 

“Are we friends?” Eddie asks innocently, finding himself pressed against Richie’s chest once again. His whole body is warm, sweat dripping down his back as the room spins. 

“Of course,” Richie replies, brushing a strand of hair behind Eddie’s ear. The alcohol is strong on his breath as he speaks, his face inches away from Eddie’s, “Dear friends.”

Eddie can’t help but giggle, oozing like butter across Richie’s body. “I do wish you didn’t want to move so fast,” he confesses, any remaining sober thoughts successfully thrown out the window. 

“You remember our agreement?” Richie asks, his breath hot against Eddie’s cheek. “Two days from now.”

“You’re a creep,” Eddie mumbles, his cheeks hot as his hips grind against Richie’s. 

“And you’re gagging for me,” Richie replies, his hands coming to grip the sides of Eddie’s hips. Eddie can’t help but gasp, he knows he should retort or push him away, but instead he lets himself be pulled closer until their noses are touching, swaying under the blue lights of the club like lovers. “Come have another drink with me, darling.”

Eddie leans against him as he orders shots for the two of them, dunking three back in an instant. Richie chuckles as he does one of his own, examining Eddie intently. 

“What?” Eddie giggles, his vision spinning. 

“You’re enchanting,” Richie replies, “so sexy.”

Eddie doesn’t know if he’s hot because of the shots or the compliment. “I am not,” he says shyly, playing with one of his curls. 

“You are. Why else would I have hired you?” Richie grins that grin that shouldn’t be as charming as it is, Eddie’s stomach flipping at the sight. “Wanna dance?”

The song is slow now, and in an instant he’s pulled flush against the older man’s chest, breathing in his cologne and sweat. 

“Yes,” he breathes, his arms making their way around Richie’s neck. 

They sway against each other, and Eddie can feel Richie’s heart hammering underneath his chest. He’s sure his own is doing the same, and he feels like his whole body is aflame with a fever—

“You’re such a fucking sex kitten,” Richie snarls in his ear, making shivers shoot up Eddie’s spine. He can feel his jeans tighten at that, a bead of sweat rolling down his exposed chest. “I wanna take you home so bad.”

“That is unprofessional…” he murmurs, his hips brushing against the older man’s thigh, “monsieur…” 

“I’ll have you screaming my name like it’s the only word you know in English.”

Eddie’s embarrassed at the moan that escapes his lips at that, low and throaty against Richie’s chest. 

“I’m gonna go get another drink, sugar.”

Eddie sways to the rhythm by himself, Whitney Houston’s voice washing over him like a foamy, velvet wave. 

Only moments later he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist— Richie must have simply done a few shots. He can’t help but melt against his chest, and his cologne smells a bit different but it must be the alcohol, right?

“I should not let you take me home,” Eddie murmurs, the other man’s hips grinding against his ass, “but, my god,  _ mon cher…”  _

He’s not sure if the room is spinning because of the lights or the booze, but he doesn’t particularly care. The other doesn’t respond, and Eddie stops to look down at his hands— there’s a glittering gold wedding band on his finger. 

“I didn’t know you were married, monsieur,” he slurs, his fingertips coming to skim along the gold. “I can make you feel better than her.”

Eddie giggles abruptly as the older of the two remains silent. “Oh my, I cannot believe I just said that!” 

The strong arms pull him closer, and goodness his cologne really  _ does  _ smell different, almost more… musky. 

“Did you put on a different cologne?” Eddie asks, letting the arm spin him around before being pulled back against the strong chest. 

Again, silence from his partner. 

“You are so quiet,” Eddie giggles, letting the music take over the natural sway of his body. Whitney has faded out to Stevie, the guitar of  _ Edge of Seventeen  _ surrounding his senses. “Why?” 

No response, only a hand sliding up to the breast of his shirt collar and peeling it open. Eddie flushes as he realizes his pecs are exposed to the world, but why should he care? He’s sexy, Richie told him so. 

“Take me home,” Eddie whispers, leaning back to brush his lips against the man’s stubble. It’s dark, and when they’re not face to face he can’t see his handsome features; the flashing, colorful lights could only do so much for his vision. He was horribly nearsighted, after all. 

“What the fuck?”

Richie’s voice comes from in front of him. Soon after so do his broad shoulders and eyes that have a look in them that Eddie has  _ never  _ seen before; angry and laser focused, almost possessive. 

_ Wait a damn minute.  _

Eddie yanks himself away from the man he’d been pressed up against, whipping around and looking at him. Sure enough, it’s not Richie; their build is the same, but this man is much darker and has a larger nose and shorter hair. 

_ How dumb can you get, Eddie?  _

“What’s your problem, man?” the man asks Richie, guiding Eddie gently out of the way. Eddie’s briefly touched before he realizes what’s going to happen— like in that American movie he loved as a child,  _ West Side Story.  _ They’re going to… don’t they call it a brawl?

“That’s my boy,” Richie nods at Eddie, crossing his arms. 

“Excuse me?”

“ _ Pardon,  _ monsieur?” Eddie scoffs. 

“Yeah, that’s my boy. And I don’t think the young man is too interested in you dancing with him,” Richie continues, grabbing Eddie’s arm. 

“Fuck off. He can make a damn decision for himself,” the man steps forward, shoving Richie in the chest. It startles him enough that his grip loosens on Eddie's arm, letting him pull away. 

“I don’t think you heard me correctly,” a small crowd has gathered around the two as Richie’s mouth quirks up into a snarl, “he’s  _ mine.” _

“Mr. Tozier,” Eddie warns as someone in the crowd gently pulls him back into the throng of people. “Stop this.” 

“Stay back, Eddie,” he warns briefly, “listen man, I don’t know what your problem is but-“

“he doesn’t need you making decisions for him,” the man snarls, shoving Richie in the chest. A few people gasp in the crowd as Eddie tries to lunge forward, only

to get caught by a different pair of hands. 

“How about we take this outside?” Richie’s fists are cocked now and the realization that someone is going

to get  _ hurt  _ smacks Eddie in the stomach. 

That realization hits him just as Richie’s knuckles hit the guy’s cheek, the whole club erupting into shouts. 

“Fuck!” Eddie hears Richie swear, the other guy bouncing back up and swinging hard at Richie. In an instant he’s on the ground, blood gushing out of his nose as the man lands another strong punch against the side of his face. 

“Eddie! Shit, let’s go,” Bev’s voice comes from beside him, her small hands circling his bicep— but he’s frozen in place as he watches Richie shove the guy off of him, pinning him down with his hips and pressing a hand to his throat. “Eddie, c’mon-“

“You piece of shit,” Richie snarls, pinching the man hard again. Eddie swears he sees a tooth fly out of his mouth, shattering against the bar floor. 

“Mr. Tozier, get off of him!” he urges, lunging forward to grab Richie only to be flicked off like a small animal. 

“Let me do this, Eddie,” Richie pants, his free hand tightening around the man’s neck. Already dark circles were forming under his eyes, blood crusting under his nose and between his lips. His glasses are skewed and his hair is a mess. 

Eddie despises the heat that throbs in his stomach at the sight. 

“I’ll show you not to mess with anyone I love,” he continues, smashing his fist into his nose and earning a  _ crack!  _ “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, got it?” 

Two men break from the crowd and pull Richie off of the man, holding him by his arms as a few bystanders begin to tend to the other man’s wounds. “Security!” one of the guys yells, Richie struggling against their grips. He’s straining against his shirt, all muscles and sweat and blood…

“Eddie,” Bev whispers, snapping him out of his thoughts. “We need to go.”

In an instant he’s dragged out of the club, the chilly air hitting his face as cars zoom past them on the street. 

“Jesus,” Bev sighs, “You know he did that for you, right?”

Eddie can’t respond. He simply leans over and vomits into the bushes, his vision spinning as Bev pats his back. 

___

Two days pass. Eddie wakes up with the worst hangover in history on Saturday morning, and then has the worst panic attack in history on Sunday morning. A historic weekend, overall. 

It’s Monday, and he still hasn’t heard from Mr. Tozier. 

_ Perhaps I should call him. It is the right thing to do.  _

_ Goodness. He would fight for me.  _

The idea makes Eddie’s stomach flip; paired with the image of the blood running down Richie’s face and the feral, wild look in his eyes as he beat on that man, Eddie feels like a princess in one of his old storybooks, swooning and fanning himself over a knight in shining armor. 

As he picks out his outfit for the day, his phone rings from his vanity. Frankly, he’s not in the mood to talk to anyone, but he’s never been one to be deliberately rude.

“Hello?” he cradles the phone between his neck and ear as he unfolds a mint green button up, shaking out the wrinkles. 

“Eddie, hi,” Mr. Tozier sounds exhausted, “God, fuck.”

“...Mr. Tozier?” Eddie asks, his hands stilling. 

“I… First off, I hate to say it but I need to- I need to apologize to you,” the statement takes Eddie aback, causing him to drop his shirt.

“Huh, monsieur?”

“I’m sorry I treated you like an object and was creepy towards you. I’m sorry I punched a random guy for dancing with you. I’m sorry for hitting on you and buying you drinks even though I’m twice your age. I shouldn’t have done it,” it’s clearly rehearsed, Eddie realizes. 

“Mr. Tozier.”

“What?”

“Did Miss Marsh have you say that?”

Silence on the other end. “...Yes.”

“It is okay. I accept your apology,” Eddie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“And, uh, I need to apologize for being a creep who was unprofessional and sexually harassed you,” he continues, completely deadpan. “It will not happen again and I don’t want to sleep with you anymore.”

Eddie pulls the phone away from his face and laughs. 

“It’s okay, Mr. Tozier,” he repeats, laying back on his bed. “Really.”

“Listen, sweetheart,” he drops the monotone, “Let me be real with you. When I’m wrong, I own up to it. Thing is, I’m never wrong.  _ Never.  _ The world plays by Richie Tozier’s rules, ya dig?” 

“Um… I do not dig.”

“Listen. I think you know how powerful I am, don’t you? You’re not that dumb, are you, kitten?” 

The condescending tone of Mr. Tozier’s voice makes Eddie’s heart flutter, much to his chagrin. 

“Bev can make me say whatever to you. But at the end of the day, I make the rules. Now,” Eddie can practically see his grin from the other end of the phone, “I want you in my office at 2 pm today. Don’t be late.”

Before Eddie can open his mouth the dial tone is ringing in his ear. 

_ Oh, fuck.  _

___

The building is empty as Eddie steps into it, save for the mousy secretary at the front desk. No ingenue models fluttering around or photographers rushing by or editors chatting on their phones. 

“Hello. I have a 2 PM appointment with Mr. Tozier,” Eddie gives the secretary a polite smile, smoothing his jacket down. 

“I’ll let him know,” she types something into the computer, her long nails clicking against the keyboard before pressing a button on her phone. “Tozier, your 2 o’ clock’s here.”

“Send him in,” Tozier’s voice crackles through the speaker, making Eddie’s heart skip a beat. The secretary gives Eddie a curt nod towards the door before going back to her computer, snapping her gum. 

It feels odd walking through the studio when it’s completely empty. The door to Mr. Tozier’s office looms ahead like a bad omen, making Eddie shiver. 

He knocks. One, two, three. 

“Come in,” Mr. Tozier calls lazily. 

His feet are up on his desk when Eddie walks in, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. “Well, well,” he grins crookedly— Eddie realizes a deep purple bruise has blossomed around his eye, where the man from Friday night had punched him. 

“Monsieur,” he can’t help but coo, “your face…” 

“I’ve had worse,” he shrugs, “come. Sit with me,  _ mon chouchou.” _

Eddie flushes at the nickname, stiffly sitting himself in one of the plush chairs. “Not there. Here,” the older man pats his thighs, rings glittering on his fingers. 

Eddie’s face feels as if it’s going to light on fire as he rises, awkwardly settling into Mr. Tozier’s lap. 

And yet, it feels so… natural. Mr. Tozier is warm, his broad shoulders firm and muscles under Eddie’s hands. His cologne is the same as it was from the night at the bar, musky and…  _ sexy.  _

_ Oh, no.  _

“It’s been a week. I’d say we know each other pretty well by now, don’t we?” Mr. Tozier smirks, “especially after the fun little moment we had on Friday.” 

“Mr. Tozier,” Eddie breathes, his heart hammering in his chest. “I know… I know about Stan. What you did to him.”

The older man’s jaw tenses at that, the lines in his face almost becoming more defined before he snaps back into the moment. “Oh, darling,” he coos, “he meant nothing to me. He was too whiny, and always biting off more than he could chew. But you…” His hand trails down Eddie’s chest, “You’re not like him. You’re perfect.”

Eddie hates how warm the praise makes him, how his whole body flushes as Richie pulls him close by the collar of his shirt. “I can give you everything you ever want if you just say yes,” his whisper is hot against Eddie’s ear, “I just need to hear that magic word, baby.” 

“But…” Richie’s nose brushes against his now, “Monsieur Tozier—“

“I won’t kiss you until you say yes,” Richie’s breath is hot, “I’ll wait forever for you.”

His free hand is pulling Eddie close by his waist, and Eddie can feel the last of his self control slipping away as he looks into Richie’s eyes. 

_ I’ll wait forever for you. _

“Yes,” he breathes, his lips meeting Richie’s. 

The older man tastes of cigarettes and mint, his kiss fierce and burning against Eddie’s lips. It’s ferocious and passionate, just like someone could expect from Richie, and Eddie almost feels lightheaded. 

“Good boy,” Richie breathes, his hands finding Eddie’s thighs. It’s just like how he imagined it— Richie’s rings pressing into his skin as he kisses him furiously, their pulses racing together. 

“Oh, baby,” Richie groans as his hips stutter against Eddie’s. “Oh,  _ mon petit lapin.” _

“Who- who taught you that?” Eddie laughs breathlessly before Richie presses another kiss to his lips, stealing away the sound. 

“That’s a secret,” Richie winks, grabbing Eddie by the thighs and picking him up abruptly. Eddie can’t help but squeal in surprise as Richie seats him firmly on his desk, opening his thighs and sliding between them to kiss him. 

Richie’s hands are free now and roaming over Eddie— touching his chest; brushing through his hair; exploring every inch of him that he never got to touch before. 

“I want to do filthy things to you,” he whispers against his lips, his fingers unbuttoning Eddie’s shirt and rubbing over his tan, exposed skin. “I want to corrupt you, sweet thing.”

Eddie gasps as his legs wrap around Richie’s waist, kissing him fiercely enough to make his own head spin. “What would- what would you do?”

Richie slides Eddie’s shirt off his shoulders, the air conditioner hitting Eddie’s back and sending shivers down his spine. “I’d make sure you couldn’t walk for days,” he breathes, pressing a kiss just underneath his earlobe. “I’d absolutely destroy you, darling.”

Eddie shudders as Richie’s kisses begin to trail down his neck. “You know what they say, yes? Older men do it better?”

“Oh,  _ yes,”  _ Eddie gasps, his slacks feeling too tight as Richie’s teeth sink into his Adam’s apple. The pain feels too good, and Eddie feels as if any minute he’ll wake up in his bed because—

Richie licks the angry purple hickey he made before facing Eddie again, his glasses askew. It’s almost

endearing, seeing him flushed and disarrayed like this. 

“I wanna  _ fuck  _ you,” Richie says, pawing at his own pants. “I want to do things to you that would make a fucking prostitute blush.”

Eddie faintly registers the sound of pants unzipping as Richie kisses him again. “You ever sucked someone off?” Richie asks, his hands coming to grip Eddie’s hair. All Eddie can muster is a measly shake of his head— Richie’s smile only stretches further across his face, his teeth glinting. “You’ll figure it out,” he says as he slides Eddie off the desk, pushing him onto his knees in front of him. 

“But monsieur...” Eddie’s fingers skim over the bulge in his pants, “...I don’t think- I don’t think I can.”

“I believe in you,” Richie strokes a hand through his hair, behind his ear and trailing down his neck. “Unbutton them, darling.”

Eddie reluctantly pops the button off of his pants; much to his surprise Richie isn’t wearing underwear, his cock springing out from underneath his fly. 

“Goodness!” Eddie can’t help but press a hand to his chest, “it’s so…” 

“Big?” Richie asks. 

“Yes.”

“Just take a little bit of it at a time,” he says, his hand firm against the back of Eddie’s neck. 

Richie’s cock  _ is  _ big, its head red and angry. He’s thick, and uncut, unlike the boys in France. 

And Eddie salivates like a pornstar in a magazine at the sight, leaning forward to lick up the bead of precum dripping from his slit. 

“Fuck,” Richie groans, his hand anchoring itself back in Eddie’s hair. “That’s a good boy.”

The taste is bitter, but Richie’s reaction is enough to encourage Eddie to put the tip in his mouth. He looks up at Richie with those ridiculous big brown eyes, earning a pat on the head for affirmation. 

“Baby,” Richie coos, his hand pushing on the back of Eddie’s head gently. His dick hits the back of the younger man’s throat, pulsing between his lips in a way that made Eddie’s gut throb with heat. 

Eddie knows he won’t be able to take all of Richie in his mouth— even as his slit scrapes the back of his throat, more than half of his cock is exposed. 

“You’re a natural already,” Richie encourages, “try

taking a little more, okay?”

Eddie pushes himself down until Richie’s cock curves down his throat, a little more than half of it in his mouth. It’s uncomfortable, tickling at his gag reflex and making tears spring to his eyes, but the groan Richie emits makes it all worth it. 

“I’m gonna move your head to show you what to do,” Richie grits through his teeth, his fingers tightening in Eddie’s hair. And normally Eddie would want to protest that, tell him that he’s  _ not  _ allowed to move him around like he’s a rag doll, but—

Richie pulls Eddie’s head back until his lips are only wrapped around the tip, the rest of his cock dripping with spit. 

In an instant Eddie’s head is shoved back down again, Richie’s dick choking him. 

“That’s a good boy,” Richie repeats, starting a rhythm of pulling Eddie back and forth on his cock. It hurts, and the precum beading from his slit is bitter and disgusting, enough to make Eddie tear up— but it feels  _ good,  _ especially with Richie moaning above him, his hand tight in his hair. 

“I’m gonna- oh- fuck your face,” Richie warns, his hips stuttering into Eddie’s mouth without a warning. Before Eddie can react Richie’s cock is shoved down his throat, his nose buried in Richie’s pubes. 

Richie pulls back out again, but the relief isn’t there for long; in an instant he’s started a rhythm again, pulling Eddie’s head forward while his hips fuck his cock down his little throat. 

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Richie growls, his hips snapping ruthlessly against Eddie’s face. Eddie isn’t a person to him anymore; his throat is a toy, like a fleshlight you’d see an ad for in a porn magazine. “Fuck, baby, you make

me feel so fucking good.” 

The tears welling in Eddie’s eyes begin to fall as Richie’s cock abuses his throat, the pressure on his gag reflex almost too much. 

Richie’s balls are full and heavy, slapping against Eddie’s chin as he grabs Richie’s hand from his hair; the universal signal of  _ I got this, monsieur  _ as he bobs his head obediently. 

“ _ Shit,”  _ Richie gasps, his head falling back against his chair. “I’m gonna fucking cum, baby, pull off pull off pull-“

Eddie coughs as he pulls off his cock, his chest heaving. “It hurts,” he croaks before yelping as Richie pulls him between his legs by his hair. 

“Do you want me to cum on your face or in your mouth?” he asks, precum steadily flowing from his tip and dribbling onto Eddie’s cheekbone. 

“On my face,” Eddie pants, knowing from

his (albeit little and very recent) experience he doesn’t like the taste of cum. 

Richie’s big hand wraps around his cock, jerking off

so hard his foreskin rolls on and off his head. It’s a weirdly arousing image, and the heat in Eddie’s stomach gets tighter as he stares at Richie’s cock. 

“You’re so fucking sexy when you look at me like that,” Richie grunts, his hand still tight in Eddie’s hair. “Look at you, with those ridiculous fucking eyes and stupid bimbo lips.”

Eddie doesn’t have enough time to close his eyes before thick ropes of cum spurt all over his face, catching in his eyelashes and rolling down his soft cheeks. 

It feels like it keeps coming for ages, Richie’s balls unloading until Eddie’s face is glazed. 

_ He sure does have a lot of semen for someone middle aged,  _ Eddie thinks to himself faintly. 

Richie drags his fingers through the cum on Eddie’s cheek, catching it on the pads of his fingernails. “Open,” he commands, Eddie’s lips dropping open obediently. 

He sticks his fingers into Eddie’s open mouth, wiping his seed on his little pink tongue. “close and suck,” he instructs. 

Eddie winces at the taste, but does so anyways. Richie coos at him, stroking his sticky, cum streaked hair out of his face. “You’re so good. I can’t believe you sucked cock like that for your first time,” he says, “maybe it’s because you were born to be a little cocksucker though, hm?”

The praise makes Eddie blush, puckering his lips around Richie’s fingers. 

Richie pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket before wiggling his fingers out of Eddie’s mouth, tucking his cock back into his pants. “Come sit on my lap,” he holds his hand out to Eddie, the younger man’s knees feeling weak as he sits on his thigh. 

“You did so good,” Richie’s voice is soft as he wipes the cum off Eddie’s face with a gentle touch Eddie didn’t think he was capable of. “My good boy.”

“I am not yours,” Eddie murmurs. 

Richie simply hushes him, wiping the last of his seed off his cheek before kissing him softly. 

“One day you will be,” he replies against his lips, pulling him close and kissing him with a passion that Eddie has never felt before. 

That’s what snaps Eddie back into the situation, and how completely, absolutely  _ wrong  _ it is. 

“Monsieur,” he pushes him away, untangling himself

from his lap and standing up. “This was wrong.”

“Eddie,” Richie pokes his lower lip out at him, “baby,

please.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head, smoothing out his shirt, “this never should have happened.”

“God, you are so fucking bipolar!” Richie snaps, “you think you can just suck my cock and kiss me like  _ that,  _ then just walk away-“

“Like  _ what?”  _ Eddie throws his hands up in the air, kissing his career goodbye yet again. 

“Like—“ Richie stops, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Just go.”

“Monsieur, I-“

“Leave, Eddie.”

Eddie can’t help but huff, making sure to slam the door behind him for maximum drama. 

The post sex guilt hits Eddie as he makes his way through the studio, earning a funny look from the secretary as he pushes through the sliding glass doors. 

_ Why did I do that? Can I just go one day without jeapordizing my fucking career? _

He’s lucky that it starts to rain as he walks down the street, the rain covering his tears. 

It’s so wrong, all of it— and yet he thinks about Richie all night, remembering the heated, comforting feeling of Richie’s lips on his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come chill with me on tumblr @sweetheartkaspbrak !!

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on tumblr! @darlingdenbrough


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